"architectural" poems
Before you criticize me too soon, I think you should spare some seconds and answer a simple question to yourself...
If Shahjahan loved Mumtaz Mahal so much, why he had a harem of wives to use at his own pleasure?
While I agree that the Taj Mahal is arguably the most extraordinarily beautiful monument in the world, I don't agree upon the fact that it was built as a tomb of love. It is just a symbol of madness if you asked me. An emperor's insecure feeling to get his name registered in the history books. While it may be one of the most beautiful architectural monument, it was built by over 20,000 architects, craftsmen, masons and engineers who took over 16 years to build the magnificent building.
He got this apparently high & prestigious monument of love built but everything that the Emperor did was not pleasant at all.
° The lavishly living Mughal Emperor spent all his - his subjects' money into building this monument of love instead of keeping his subjects well-fed.
° Mumtaz Mahal might have been the luckiest woman to have died and got such a marvelous building built as her mausoleum but she died giving birth to her & Shahjahan's 17th offspring and then Shahjahan who had uncountable other wives was inspired by her demise apparently to undertake what is termed as the biggest project in history build the costliest monument proclaiming his rule.
° The arrogant - falsely proud lover - Mughal emperor didn't know that what he thought to be looked at as the greatest symbol of love will be criticized by some poet in his own land nearly 375 years later. The insane Mughal Emperor got all the builders of the Taj Mahal's fingers cut-off of so that there could be no other Taj Mahal.
But Aurangzeb, his & Mumtaz Mahal's son overthrew his power when Shahjahan got older and locked him up in a jail at the other end of Yamuna river where the emperor then died a sad old lovelorn bedlamite person in prison. Aurangzeb was the exact opposite of his dad, he showed religious intolerance and his habits drove the empire towards its doom after his death.
But let me think this way; when I look at any picture of the Taj Mahal, what I get the first thing in mind is this: Such a CRAZY emperor who got such a beautiful monument of Egotism built!
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 11:23 AM UTC
We attempt rescue, unable to bear
the stardust-coated dragonfly
beat, beat, beating
frantic on the glass.
We entice him to perch
on our extended lifeline-broom
nurse him in a box, where he flutters
quivers, lies quietly blue.
My son cries bitterly
as we place a minute cross
upon the dragonfly grave
while intoning our final goodbyes:
*We honor those who have fallen victim
to this fatal architectural trap, lured
by skylights of enticing white-light death
and the paned illusion of freedom.
In admiration of winged determination
and perseverance in the face of futility
we carefully tend the fragile, curved bodies
lay them here to rest under the mock orange.*
years of gauze-weighted detritus
swept beneath these ponderous shrubs
a reminder - what seems like freedom
often isn’t.
Apr 14, 2016
Apr 14, 2016 at 11:16 AM UTC
Overwhelming mental congestion for perfection,
Socially influenced blueprints of future attraction.
Constructive criticism given by construction workers,
The labor of family and friends for reassurance.
A solid foundation of first impressions,
Structured walls of growth and development.
Insulation of natural feelings and experiences,
Ventilation to cool down the heated encounters.
Electrical wiring of an emotional and physical connection,
A circuitry of passion and romance with a light switch.
Hardwood flooring for candle lit dinners and ballroom dancing,
Granite kitchen counters for intimate midnight snacks.
An attractive exterior siding to woo the public eye,
A secure lock of commitment on all the doors.
A roof of trust, and a picket fence,
And now, my love,
I’m simply yours.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Smoke is filling my bones
The carcinogenic ghosts of an irish ancestory
At war with my german temper
Fueling the fire
To a heart that beats for belonging
Keeping me in step with the frostbitten sidewalks
Of a December morning
Lips moist from french vanilla cappuccino
And your chapstick
Smoke is filling my bones
I'm rolling through my own fingertips
Losing touch with my own reality
Wondering if my knuckles are white from clenched fists
Or the grip around your palm
Smoke is filling my bones
You don't smoke
Yet you fill your lungs with my exhale
Breathe me in
I'll house myself in your capillary beds
Where I'll tuck myself in for the night
Listening to what makes your heart tick
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
I
There is a house with ivied walls,
And mullioned windows worn and old,
And the long dwellers in those halls
Have souls that know but sordid calls,
And dote on gold.
II
In a blazing brick and plated show
Not far away a ‘villa’ gleams,
And here a family few may know,
With book and pencil, viol and bow,
Lead inner lives of dreams.
III
The philosophic passers say,
‘See that old mansion mossed and fair,
Poetic souls therein are they:
And O that gaudy box! Away,
You ****** people there.’
6.8k
Attended by old friends and mentors
the Great Bear's name is set in stone.
Protected by the roof of his architectural cave
his undying lines resound
in the celebrated corner of words.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 6:04 AM UTC
Forgetting the desert's treacherous paths
standing alone, he insanely marvels
nature's architectural craft;
a cactus tower unique, spiraling many ways.
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
Oh, sad Poet,
cartographer
of the heart,
mapping the geography
where sadness
is the topography
of your soul.
Oh, Cousteau
of the changing tides,
like an oceanographer,
an admiral spying
the enemy on the horizon.
Your sorrow comes and goes.
Oh, builder of sad dreams
in your house of many rooms,
but one door. Like a grave,
a casket shellacked with
black paint, a mural
of a shadow on the wall.
Architectural sorrow.
Oh, you sad Poet,
open your eyes,
paint us a poem of a rose.
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 7:17 AM UTC
There’s a god in this space computer
There’s a person in this space cocoon
There’s a spirit in red defeating the holy
There’s a trio of sailors flying past the moon
There’s a left-handed man drifting in a probe
There’s an astronaut gliding in an earlobe
There’s a malfunctioned leader stuck on Mars
There’s a determined machinist amidst the stars
There’s a sacred yellow Judas in the jaws of life
There’s a bloated bellow shooting from the tree of strife
There’s a solitary soldier among the aliens
There’s a black slab of faith between here and then
There’s an eight-pointed star of architectural riddles
There’s a cow, a spoon, a dog and a fiddle
There’s a god at number two, a bird at number three
And there’s always Jupiter to seem higher than thee
There’s an eye full of molecules
There’s an eye full of stars
There’s a blind man full of loneliness
There’s an empty void at large
Dec 31, 2011
Dec 31, 2011 at 9:06 PM UTC
I am a knight,
Yet, I carry no sword, nor ride a sturdy stead.
My domed armour, an architectural wonder,
Its smooth curvature, my only defence.
Fragile, I withstand great force.
Unyielding, I surrender under pressure
When struck, I succumb to my inevitable fate.
Helpless as the enemy raids my stronghold.
Fractured, blood oozes from my gouging wound.
Shattered, surrounded by the fragments of my doomed existence.
Discarded, I am left, forgotten.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.
Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
The dichotomy of purgatory is sprinkled with the delights and disciplines of a fretful uncertainty and steam locomotives can sound menacing when their pistons seek to establish torque on those rails of pursued destination with mesmerizing force.
I know that time is like a fondling excitement, where constellations of perceived energy fields become intellectually categorized into mechanical parts of a metaphysical ******
Universal parameters of death may generate mischievous laughter, which resound throughout the silent galaxies of cosmological meadows.
I have to say that geometrical co-ordinates automatically invoke thoughts of plain paper and hot chocolate – small figments of homosapien pastures where grazing is not a realistic occurrence.
As we perceive the eternal impressions of epistemological nihilism, let us play the game of religious patience on this checkered board of architectural bliss.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
On a scale of 1-10, if you could save one person,
and one person only;
who would it be?
Venetian beaches and Parisian streets,
on the other side of the world,
someone is drowning.
Literally.
Drowning.
But on the flip side,
1+1= 2;
or a window to peek outside and see that blue flamingo.
That one,
right there.
Yes, you!
You.
You're the one I would save,
scales impossible to measure the beauty of those architectural realms.
Hurry up and float to me,
you idiot,
because U+I= love.
Or is it the other way around?
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
The library is a quiet, empty cave where voices echo like ghosts in a gymnasium.
Laughter.
You can feel the history here, both in the dusty tomes and the architectural nod to the Roman coliseum.
Strange visitors of which I am numbered as I stand here spouting poor poetry on my phone.
Enough.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:12 PM UTC
A desiccated brown leaf remembering greener days,
summersaults stem over end into the exposed cold dirt softened somewhat in demeanor by the grass and radiant shafts
The geese and ducks squawk and honk in the distance
Congratulating each other for the day's richness
and the way the sun feels on their proud beaks
glinting off the water in its way
a shimmering band
A princely golden carpet forever unrolling and yet complete
The sun's spindle weaves gems of light into a gossamer web
laid glittering across the water
A vision for Moses
who saw the true path through the sea
Fireworks Forever exploding sunlight
Gifted to the eye on clear liquid canvas
The wind ripples the waves
wrinkles pushed along
foaming in the sand
Little Kisses
on the grainy cheek
Star Flashes Communicating ancient patterns
Secrets of Existence Coming in Morse code, Fibonacci Sequencing,
Sacred Geometry in Twinkling Motion
Individual explosions blinking on a natural switchboard
Telling the architectural answer
Manifesting the blueprint
to only every reason why
The Last Leaf sings in the Breeze, swinging
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 12:03 PM UTC
London,
Beating heart of England,
Charismatic time-capsule thrumming to its own rhythm,
History looming, akin to massive waves splashing down,
Drenching all, the unwary, the scholar, soaking it up,
Savouring every scintillating droplet, blissful, hopeful,
Weaving through lives, changing with every moment,
Variety of race and creed, intermingling, jostling, noticing,
Sharing sight, sound, colour, scents, smiles and frowns,
Pulsing soul of people, thriving and alive, buzzing with spirit,
In Camden, easy-going, a friendly riot of textured-hazy-peace,
Artful structures of Belgravia, magnolia temples of affluence,
Lauding architectural finery while mere mortals pass through,
Mind swinging through centuries, flowing along the river artery,
Bridges carrying us home, keeping their own dark secrets,
Cranes rising high, creating modern palaces, new beginnings,
Old lives wreathed in the foggy past of legendry deeds,
Embellished beyond reality, ghosts crying out, warning,
We can never own this city, never know this city, not really,
Guardian dragon allows us entrance, pours herself upon us,
Takes our love, progresses while we observe,
All left behind, knowing, feeling, sensing,
We are but shadows in her Light,
Dust on her famous streets,
Blessed to know her,
To breathe her,
Love her,
London.
©Paul Chafer 2014
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 3:49 PM UTC
Glances shared at infinitesimal instances
trickle up my vertebrae,
blow the dust away
& chew the tin foil for me.
Nonchalantly running a gauntlet
that I designed with architectural
displeasure.
If you absorbed all the gold you've ever touched,
feverishly drank the blood of gods,
suckled the syrup from tangerines
until you blessed a famine,
stole your story from a pack of gorgeous wolves,
or inhaled the whispers of every wise soul
it would still not explain your unprecedented
growth & elegance.
A superlative pressure wave in the eyes of
a politician.
Purely an enigma.
Beauty in the form of human nature.
I truly flourish in this experience.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 9:56 PM UTC
by this man-made lake
a steady drizzle hums,
the sun, yesterday’s news
as nature’s palette turns green and gray.
staring into the gun metal sky
she nuzzles her hennaed hair
into his gandhian lap,
mesmerized by the pitter patter
she dubs, as tears from heaven.
a bow-shaped stone bridge on the near horizon,
red-eared sliders floating on the water,
the pencil thin architectural skyline,
even the floating melancholy mute swan
beckons monet to rise like the phoenix
and have a second go at whimsical life
but not me,
with a cornucopia of life-scars to show,
and a ticking clock that’s monotonously relentless,
this trip to the crease better be
the last time at bat
© 2022
Jul 2, 2022
Jul 2, 2022 at 12:49 PM UTC
Sometimes Smith has no idea of what’s happening
Whether the ground below is vanishing away from his feet
Or he is just levitating past the skyscrapers
Smith has a good book
There he reads about a great artist
A con artist to be precise and all his sadistic puzzles
Smith tries to wake up, thinking he is still dreaming
Because the artist’s puzzles are still at large
How is he that successful? He has vast architectural knowledge
Knowledge enough to create ever-tricky mazes
Only the divine can fix the con’s jigsaw
And sometimes those with the divine touch show flaws
The con creates a series of optical and mental illusions
Illusions great enough to make you think there’s no divine being and even make you believe there’s no con
Smith wonders why the bad escape and the good suffer
Sometimes he gets trapped in his mind, thinking of the **** luscious mermaids and geisha girls
He is able to ignore them sometimes
But barely escape them and their never ending charm, on a very lustful day
The con artist sits in his empire and literally tries to get people stuff two plugs together or merge two sockets together.
That is a sick idea!
The con keeps smith wondering in delusions
He hides under the disguise of light
When the divine light shines, it melts off Smith’s saturated delusions
And restores him to reality
With the light he can see, you can see
How the con poses monsters as **** pretty ladies, heat as comfort, graves as castles, blasphemy as thanksgiving.
How he tries to make people monopolise the power of the divine
Sweet in vanity
In the end the divine light blinds the con artist and all those gleaming eyes in the dead dark
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
The paradise of darkness is like a climactic and physiological déjà vu, where souls have been swallowed by ancient daemons amidst an **** of oral sacrifice.
Aren’t you tantalised by such forbidden seductions?
Although I am somewhat acquainted with the blackness of unfathomable depths of the ancient abyss, I sincerely call upon your superior wisdom to beckon me across craggy chasms of mathematical perplexity, where eternal ghosts wail with agonising obscurity from the turrets of architectural stronghold.
If you light a candle toward the incarnation of depravity and reveal the sacred circle, then I will ensure safe passage down those historical and spiral staircases where dungeons hold innumerable fetishistic secrets.
I am captivated by co-existing opposites.
Let us talk with the goat, and arrive at a mutually agreeable pact.
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 11:17 PM UTC
A plot of more than 300 square yards,
Our house is being built within it,
And the architectural model,
It is just very beautiful to look at,
Though it is only on paper right now.
Just not a home until we shift inside,
Lamps for construction are lit,
And few nomad workers,
All of those live near that site,
They build the house like their own.
We just do not shift things into there,
Once its construction is complete,
Then we thank mother nature,
Celebrated will be its completion,
And so will be its existence as if won.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC
The first week I slept downstairs, to be right next to him
We're keen to build the bond, and do our best for him
It's two steps forward, one step back
Sometimes we've thought, it's just a few brain cells that he lacks
Then for sure he's getting there, he's really learning lots
It's go go go, up down, round round
Pull off the table cloth
Just when we think he's such a cute young pup
He's doing well, he's being good, and really growing up
He's even asking to go out by waiting at the door
He decides to let us down
And does a finely placed architectural poo
In the middle of the floor
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
The day of your life
and the night of your day,
which one is more important
and relevant to you.
Both have their place in the
scheme of things.
The two worlds are busy
working and building,
constructing in conjunction
with the divine to create
a masterpiece of wonder.
It's really not in your place
to control any of them
but to work with both.
They move subtly to construct,
sometimes with aggression to
change and balance all things,
with or without you.
Actually you have no choice or
control in their decisions.
Man becomes helpless and
hopeless when they begin to
exact their power of supremacy.
You can only command nature
by obeying her principles.
Both are needful and are
blended together working
in synergy to bring to us
a desired end.
Man is placed on earth to enjoy,
but not to interrupt and interfere
with the divine.
A master plan is already within
the blueprint of the architectural
design for a magnificent
and excellent living.
Yield to it and have peace.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 6:53 AM UTC
The sweet hum of a beautiful melody.
The deep aroma of morning exhaust fumes.
The excited chatter in a foreign tone.
Clip clopping of high heeled shoes speeding up to catch a bus.
The homeless man wrapped in a rotten sleeping bag as close to rigormortis as a live man gets with his palm open but his eyes closed.
The twang of perfume mixed with cigarette smoke floating effortlessly up to the blue sky above.
Marvellous architectural wonders rising from the ground, their dominating shadows line the streets to serve as a reminder that our forefathers laid down the road we still walk today.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:58 AM UTC
Let us contemplate the superiority of striking presumption, as it seeks to pontificate the order of architectural allegiance.
Oh, Grand Master of Greco-Roman antiquity, I bow before the sacred volumes of legal pronouncement where unseen rituals tangibly assert their authority over those who seek to embrace the ancient pathways of knowledge.
As the degrees of freedom transcend the definition of a mere mathematical concept, we must never forget the formulations of our Hellenistic forefathers who chiselled the shape of the Order into the annals of the future.
As we give thanks to Set, we acknowledge the blindfolded ceremonies of sibling homicide which encourage wisdom in this circular lodge of self-binding.
Harpocrates is our God of silence who gained sustenance from feminine anatomical structures – and we are like Isis who has been impregnated by Osiris.
So, as we cast our gaze beyond the rites of this ****** union, let us acknowledge those ***** masonry structures of obelisk stability.
Have you been born yet?
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC